


A word of Appreciation

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Edgeplay, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Nanites, Omnics, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Sensory Deprivation, Talon Tekhartha Zenyatta, Team Talon (Overwatch), Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *pwp Talon Team x Zenyatta*His body is pliant on the thin mattress, long limbs carefully assembled to keep him spread.His optical receptors have been disabled, red cables unplugged and dangling from the back of his head, useless, but every other sensor is active and fully functional, and they make use of them all.





	A word of Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

> very self indulgent :D

His body is pliant on the thin mattress, long limbs carefully assembled to keep him spread.

His optical receptors have been disabled, red cables unplugged and dangling from the back of his head, useless, but every other sensor is active and fully functional, and they make use of them all.

There is no respite, and they play a winning hand.

A golden chain is wrapped around his wrists, tying them to the head of the bed, and his fingers clench and unclench around nothing, every tiny jolt making them twitch in futile attempt to do something –anything– to be in control.

He’s not. _They are_.

The fingers that prepare him are thick and warm, and teasing. They caress a path down his front, teasing one of his sensor nodes as they move, then another, the touch soft and careful, meant to tease, to remind him of who is there and who is in control, and how it isn’t him.

Zenyatta is exposed, thighs kept apart not by more restraints but by a pair of gloved hands, and the sensors in his legs register a buzz of nanomachines where they touch before all his awareness is swept away by another hand, one that pets his valve, visible to all in the room as his modesty panel has been taken away even before they started.

A flat thumb rolls around his glowing nub, sending shivers down his frame, and he arches a bit, as much as he can when he’s held down, into the touch, wanting more of that elusive caress.

“Don’t be hasty,” a voice murmurs, close yet far, full of amusement, thick with lust and the promise of what’s to come. Akande’s. “We have all night.”

The palm of a hand moves against his valve, a steady, warm pressure, kneading the soft folds, the base of a thumb insistently caressing against the lower part of his nub, and Zenyatta makes a soft, chirruping noise as his hips twitch.

Something warm and soft presses against the curve of his thigh, where his knee bends, and then something hot-wet seeks out the sensory node there –lips, a tongue– and Zenyatta chirps again, parting his legs further.

“So sensitive…” another voice joins him, less amused and more technical, it comes from too far for Zenyatta to pinpoint. “Seems the reworked system of sensory nodes works as expected.”

“We need to… test them further, just to make sure,” Akande replies, amused, dripping lust and thick with it, and Zenyatta shivers again, his voice box betraying his eagerness with a little chirp. “If you wish, you can just stay and look, but…” a knuckle rubs insistently against his valve, not pressing in but teasing, making Zenyatta wish for it to push inside, “it is more interesting to take an active part in this, Moira.”

A snort, one laced with amusement, then heels tap against the floor as Moira moves closer, and Zenyatta jumps when a lithe hand curls around his throat, right where his voice box is.

“He might prefer to be watched,” she hums, the smirk bleeding into her tone, and she chuckles when Zenyatta jolts again under her touch, his fans spinning just a little faster, at the idea and at how she does not even address him even if he’s there. “See? He likes to know someone is watching as he falls. He enjoys the attention, the eyes focused on him just as much as what you have planned for him. But…” her hand tightens around his throat, enough that a few more delicate servos creak under the pressure “… later, I might… indulge.”

Her fingers trace a patch back up against his faceplate, teasing, sharp nails scraping against the shiny metal, then they’re gone.

“After all, you just said we have all night. No reason to ruin the fun so early.” Akande chuckles at this, the sound vibrating in the air, and the knuckle against his folds presses in a little bit, moving away when Zenyatta’s valve flutters against it. “Proceed.”

“Some of us do not have all that patience,” another voice pipes in, and this one sounds almost whiny. “I do not enjoy being bored, you know. Watching isn’t fun, and he’s moving too slow for me! Just let me have some fun with this since you didn’t let me tinker with his programming…”

“You should learn to wait, Sombra. No need to hurry when you have nothing else to do.” Reaper’s voice is throaty, Zenyatta’s sensors recalibrate to focus on it, and shivers in answer to it, to the nanomachines buzzing against the curve of his legs as they make themselves known, vibrating against his chassis. Reaper’s grip on his thighs is steely and unmoving. “… or do you?”

Sombra huffs, taps her fingers on the ground, and there is a soft sound, not unlike a foot hitting someone’s leg. “Still–”

“We will have our fun soon, don’t worry,” the sharp edge of Widowmaker’s voice cuts through Zenyatta’s brain like ice. The sound of high heels tapping against the floor is different from that of Moira’s shoes, more practical than hers, as she circles around the bed.

Zenyatta is split between the hand still caressing his valve, never pushing inside, the nanomachines expanding alongside his knees to tease the sensors along his inner thigh, and the sudden contact of a cold hand with the edge of the wires on his neck.

The hand tugs at them, sensors flaring up with just a light edge of pain, and Zenyatta whines, softly, deep in his synth.

“He likes to be pushed on the edge, where pleasure burns into pain,” Widowmaker murmurs, and she leans down, speaking directly in Zenyatta’s auricular sensors, her breath cool against the edge of his head. Her ‘r’ rolls on her tongue like fine liquor, rich and pleasant. “We will soon be part of this, Sombra. Wait your turn.”

Widowmaker presses a kiss right on Zenyatta’s forehead array, probably smearing the metal with her dark lipstick, and just as she does, Akande pushes one finger inside, and he seizes up at the unexpected change of pace.

The hands holding his thighs spread him further open as one big, calloused finger is worked inside of him, testing his stretch, teal slick gushing out to wet the rest of Akande’s hand as he works and Zenyatta attempts, futilely, to push into the touch.

Seconds blur away, his fans growing louder and louder as processes rerank themselves, protocols shuffling around, some culled to allow more room for the pleasure cursing through his circuits, steady and low.

Akande moves to two fingers, pressing them inside him in slow, circular motions, spreading them gently and slowly, his other hand still massaging his glowing nub, and Zenyatta cannot stay quiet, small moans filling the room with noise.

He cannot stay still, either –his shoulders tremble and hitch, his back arching every time Akande pushes a finger a little deeper before retreating, rubbing sensory nodes within him that never felt this good before, this intense.

“Ah–”

“He likes it when you fill him up,” Reaper murmurs, low and throaty, and nanomachines slide down the curve of his front, detaching from Reaper’s body, buzzing with life. They curl around his cock, still latched inside him, unable to come out, caress its tip only to move lower, and Zenyatta makes a broken, needy sound when they slide inside, covering Akande’s fingers, and push further in, sending flickers of intense pleasure through his sensors, his processors almost halting. “Like this,” Reaper sounds so pleased, he’s probably smirking under his mask, but Zenyatta can barely hear him, too focused on how full he feels, stretched further and further by Akande’s fingers and those delicious nanites, pushing and pulling and–

“That is a delightful sight, but if you don’t cut it out soon, it will be over too quickly.” The new voice has a different cadence, slower, lazy.

Zenyatta’s brain spins as he rolls his head to the side, unable to focus on anything except the pleasure of being so full and stretched.

His auricular sensors listen to familiar footsteps coming closer, and in his mind he can picture a black tailored suit, pristine and perfect, metal glinting and a red forehead array staring down at him, and he hums when metal joints, nimble and cold, follow the curve of the back of his head down to the wires and open ports at the base.

Sparkles fly and he immediately seizes up, prickles of pain and pleasure tingling down his back, stretching out to the tip of his fingers, bound wrists straining as he tries to arch –away and into it.

His wires are on fire, instant input data flickering down the cables on the back of his head, jolts of pleasure so different from the one Akande and Reaper are causing down below, but just as delicious, just as…

A thumb curls on the underneath of Zenyatta’s jaw, pushing it up, a finger slots itself where more of his delicate wiring is, right below the curve of his mouth piece, “Do you wish to come, then?”

Zenyatta shakes, his legs twitching, parting as an invitation, and he juts his chin up into the touch, offering the sensitive wires for Maximilian to interface with… only to have the hand move lower, to the base of his neck, and press down hard on a cable there, scraping the edge of it.

The jolt it sends down Zenyatta’s body reminds him, sharply, that they won’t let him –he can’t come, not now, not until they wish him to, until he’s shattered in their hands, as it should.

He sobs, quietly, full of desire and heat, aches deep inside his valve and inside his cock, still sheathed and untouched, and wants

_so much more_

“Not yet,” Maximilien murmurs, so quiet, dignified, a pleased hum. “That would be too soon. We have time. How long you last before you truly beg… I bet the sight will be even better.”

Nested between Zenyatta’s legs, Akande chuckles, the amusement sharp in his tone. “Was that a challenge?” he asks.

Zenyatta feels the fingers slide out of him, and tries hard to keep them inside, chasing that ending that feels so far yet so close.

“Was it not meant to be?” Maximilien shoots back, solid and cold, his fingers still playing with the circuits on the back of Zenyatta’s head, gentle in comparison to his tone.

“That’s pretty hot,” Sombra murmurs from somewhere, to nobody in particular.

“And what Akande and Reaper were doing isn’t?” Widowmaker’s tone is amused, leery, and Sombra snorts at this. “You’re awfully loud. I want to hear _him_.”

And Sombra does quieten down –because Widowmaker is right, and Zenyatta sounds _nice_.

Akande fucks into Zenyatta with his fingers, deeply, as the nanomachines of Reaper move out of the way, though his hands remain steady at his knees, keeping him well spread. “So be it,” Akande murmurs, directed at Maximilien, and his mouth maps the edges of Zenyatta’s sheathe, barely brushing against the tip of his cock before he moves away, his fingers still deep inside him.

They’re thick and big and Zenyatta’s slick is a perfect lubricant as Akande fucks him, relentless, until he’s almost incoherent.

There is no climax, just a continuous high, easy to get lost into, and Zenyatta does.

His mind swims, processes sluggish, and slow, voice box crackling with electricity as he keeps moaning, not wishing to be quiet since he does not have to –not this time.

They like when he’s loud, and he likes to know they’re looking at him and–

Time blurs. The fingers fill him up, two then three, and he’s so full, and every jolt of that hand sends pleasure through his circuits. Akande’s thumb teases his nub, rubs it then retreats, slides across it over and over, slick and warm, and every time Zenyatta’s voice glitches. He has no idea how long it is, he only knows that he’s there, on the edge, and it’s impossible how good it is, how it stretches on, and on, until his voice box crackles and breaks down, tiny little needy sounds, breathy without the need for air, gasps that steal away all coherency he has left.

He can’t come, kept on a constant edge, and the pleasure burns through him so much he has no space, no processors left for thinking.

There is just pleasure as a constant, and Akande’s body and Reaper’s hands, and their voices murmuring to him praises and coaxing him to be louder even as they keep him well spread and on the edge.

When the fingers retreat, he’s a shuddering mess. Slick coats his inner thighs, and it’s everywhere underneath him, teal and slippery, and more gushes out from his twitching, gaping valve now that nothing is there to fill it up.

Zenyatta arches his back, wants those fingers back inside him, every second without that feeling, without that pleasure, is like pain, and he craves, craves it so much, and he calls out for Akande in broken, loud chirps.

“Shhh, you were doing good,” cold fingers caress down the side of his neck, where he’s arching into the bed, his pistons tense as far as they can go. He seeks contact, the touch pleasant against the heat that comes from his chassis, and tilts his face plate towards her. “Do you want a little reward, then?”

“Ooh, now that’s good,” Sombra hummed somewhere, so far, and Zenyatta moans. “He does, he does. C’mon, show the goods!”

“So vulgar,” Widowmaker murmurs, and Zenyatta can only focus on her voice now, on the hypnotic cadence of her tone, on her hand, which feels so good as it caresses down his heated chassis…

He groans when she unlatches his cock, sliding it out of its sheathe. It’s warm to the touch, and leaking lubricant down its sides and her hands are cold against it, tickling the small sensors at its base with curt tugs of her wrist.

Zenyatta doesn’t expect it when she climbs on top of him but facing away from him, nor does he expect to feel cold wetness caress the tip of his cock.

He pushes up into it, but Akande’s hands hold his hips down, preventing him from moving too much, and he whines. Widowmaker must be a sight, standing on top of him, rubbing herself on his cock, slowly, grinding down into it until it catches against her folds, and then she exhales slowly, a soft murmur of pleasure, and–

–she sits down and envelops his prosthetic cock, all of him in a single stride, without making a sound, goes down and takes him in, deeper and deeper, until he bottoms out inside her, snug and tight, and every sensor of his cock is burning at the sensation as he desperately tries to buck into her.

She’s cold inside, too, and tight –she clenches down around him, her labia fluttering around the girth of his cock, his lubricant making for a pleasant, smooth slide as she starts to ride him, fucking herself on it.

Where Akande’s fingers had been hot before, she is cold. Her weight on top of him anchors him and so do the hands holding him down, and then Reaper’s hands are still on his knees, keeping his thighs spread and pressed down on the mattress.

Zenyatta cannot move, and Widowmaker rides him slowly, at her own pace, her hips rocking slightly every time she raises up, his cock almost sliding out before she greedily pushes down on him, and he can only tremble and whine and chirp as she takes her own pleasure, slowly, methodically.

“I want in!” Sombra steps forwards, and this time no one stops her.

She slides to her knees in front of the bed, and Zenyatta jumps when he feels her mouth, hot and soft, press against Widowmaker’s folds, right where she’s taking him so well, and kiss and licks at where they’re connected.

He bucks into the touch, and Sombra chuckles, denies him, her fingers circling his nub and rubbing it even as she licks and suck at what she can reach of his cock and Widowmaker’s folds.

She’s sloppy, and doing it on purpose, too –with Widowmaker not making it any easier either, both more interested in teasing now.

Sombra ignores Zenyatta’s valve even as it twitches around nothing, teal slick peeking from swollen folds, and only wets her finger in it to massage the base of his cock, hand slipping between his body and Widowmaker’s to grip at it, tease tiny wires with her fingers, then the ridges and the sensors, pressing hard on them and making him jolt.

“Doc was right,” she purrs, even as she licks her lips and trails her tongue up the exposed underside of Zenyatta’s cock as Widowmaker lifts herself up again, carefully balanced so he doesn’t slip out, allowing Sombra to play around for a bit. “You like this, and you can’t even come!”

Zenyatta chirps, tries to get Widowmaker to push down again, his cock aching for her, but she remains where she is, with only his tip inside her, and Sombra reaches up to her, lips caressing her clit, mouthing at her fluttering labia, dipping inside her with her tongue, pushing Zenyatta’s cock to the side to take a bit of her taste, and though he can’t see it, Zenyatta can imagine how Sombra’s lips are now stained teal, and wonders, with a stray process not lost in the pleasure and in straining to get more, if his cock is stained with her lipstick now, too.

“Hmm…”

On top of him, Widowmaker makes soft, pleased sighs, murmurs Sombra’s name, and Sombra feels the vibrations on her tongue, and moves out of the way so that Widowmaker can slide back down.

They both enjoy the way Zenyatta chokes and splutters, static crackling through his synth, and though he can’t see it, they exchange a look.

Widowmaker fucks down on Zenyatta’s cock a little harder, angling herself so she can take more and more, her hips making circular motions and always coming to press on Sombra’s lips, asking for more.

Sombra gives with a smile, her other hand teasing Zenyatta’s nub so gently before coming to do the same to Widowmaker’s clit, fingers slick with teal lubrication and sweat, so warm compared to how cold Widowmaker is, and the difference is…

“ _Ah_ –”

Zenyatta arches his back, demands more, and is denied again. This isn’t as deep as Akande’s fingers, but it’s just as absolute, just as good, and he can’t stop it.

He’s brought on the edge again, and again there’s no respite, just a constant building of pleasure that never ebbs, that burns through his circuits and sends warnings flashing across his brain.

Zenyatta moans, writhes and lets Widowmaker come on his cock, clenching so hard around his cock that he feels almost close– but not enough.

Unsatisfied, he burns through, and can’t even stop her as Widowmaker slides off of him, leaving him moaning, his cock cold and burning at the same time, every inch of its surface tingling and sensitive, his valve aching to be filled.

Sombra kisses the base of his cock as a thank you, slides up his body with her lithe, small one, and presses her clothed front against his own, rubbing herself on him, probably smearing his teal slick all over her lap.

He thrusts up against her, cock trapped between their bodies as she rocks into him, thrusts her hips just a little so they align, smirking against his face plate when he hiccups and moans, hoping she’ll take pity and press harder into him, do something, anything–

“Next time, darling,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against his mouth piece, her breathing a little laboured, her lips swollen, “There’s always a next time…”

Zenyatta shivers at the promise, but next time is not _now_ , and he feels the heat recede, the edge taken away from him again.

He’s not sure he can last much longer, though it is not in his control whether he can or not, and his next words is a soft, broken plea, to no one in particular and to all of them, even as Sombra slides off of him, and moves away.

“My turn,” Reaper murmurs.

He comes undone, his body a cloud of dark, unwavering nanomachines, and Zenyatta feels them cover every inch of his body like a slow tide.

They sneak through every cranny and nook, slip past the edges of his metal chassis, swarm across his circuits, and make them sing.

It’s slow, and at first the feeling is just relaxing, his body arching under the buzzing nanomachines vibrating against his frame, sneaking inside, it’s almost ticklish, and then–

Pleasure burns through his circuits.

Zenyatta screams.

For a second, he is suspended somewhere –nowhere, anywhere, everywhere– spread out, and Reaper takes him in every way he can be taken, sliding inside him, nanomachines vibrating and opening him up, stretching past any resistance he might have, though there is none, not really.

They fill up his valve, push inside, thick and growing larger, swelling inside him until his insides protest at the intrusion, drunk with input data and pleasure and

His cock is swallowed by more nanomachines that caress and press against it, like the pretense of a hot, tight warmth, wet and slick and vibrating

His core is burning, his voice box glitches out, his body feels unlike his own, stretched out, mixing his identity with everything that is Reaper as they clash together and meld, Reaper like an overpowering presence that totals Zenyatta until all that is left of him is a single, intense point of concentrated _pleasure_.

It is too much –his body convulses, raises up from the bed, vibrates and shakes, steam hissing from his fans, million processes crash and burn until they all die, replaced only by the steady hum of Reaper’s nanomachines, taking and taking, and Zenyatta can do nothing else but give and give and _give_ as he screams and tries to take more of Reaper inside him, opens himself up in every way as the nanites fuck into him, rub and vibrate and eat at him and–

The next second, Reaper disengages, and the jolt destabilizes Zenyatta enough that he flops on the bed, weak and sluggish, legs and arms twitching.

His head is heavy, his mind heady and clouded, his auricular receptors full of cotton and he’s left in a daze as Reaper moves out, dragging himself back into a single entity again, and Zenyatta is left behind, sopping wet and leaking, a streak of slick come splattered over his midsection and underneath him, and still so aching hard, so wanton, that the emptiness of his valve burns with Reaper’s absence.

Zenyatta almost weeps, the sobs in his synth broken through by the way his entire body shivers, and it’s so much, it’s too much, and with nobody near him he can only shake, his brain refusing to complete a single thought except that

He needs his release, and the pleasure is a continuous feeling inside him, even as the nanites move away from him, he still feels them fill him up, he still feels them coax him into a deeper, overwhelming pleasure, and yet he

_he_

There is a hand caressing the side of his face plate, gently, and Zenyatta jumps, startled, his voice box crackling with another long, breathy moan. He’s thrumming, and every touch flares up more pleasure.

His entire chassis is sensitive now, and those fingers trailing down his neck, to caress his pistons, are enough to make him almost weep.

Every shift on the bed makes him feel like he’s coming, heightened sensations burning through him in short, quick bursts, yet he cannot come, though the pleasure is enough that it feels like he does.

He twitches and it spikes again, and he’s back on the edge, again and again, like static, like Reaper kick-started a hundred small, powerful orgasms and Zenyatta feels each of them wreck his body.

They keep coming, and so does he, little bursts of pleasure that steal him away, time and time again, as he arches off the bed, every motion setting off more and more of them no matter where he turns, or what he does, his heels digging into the bed, his brain processes confused as to where is up or down, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Zenyatta gives and gives, and there are hands moving down his body now, belonging to many, many different people, they stroke his sides, his arms, elbows, his neck and his chest, they dip between his legs and caress every juncture, then dip into it, barely there, teasing.

It’s so much, it’s too much, _it’s_ –

One hand grabs his cock and Zenyatta twitches in the grip, mind floating somewhere as he feels his body, unresponsive, slump down into the touches.

Fingers part his folds and something thick and heavy and _big_ slides in, a body covers his own, and it’s so delicious, and there’s so much friction inside of him that Zenyatta arches into it, delirious with pleasure and wanting more of it.

Hands move to the base of his neck, and there’s a flicker of something within Zenyatta’s own mind as another consciousness bumps into his own, steady and humming.

It is not the complete, overwhelming shock of Reaper’s nanomachines, of his mind covering everything of Zenyatta, but something smaller, cooler, restricted to a single omnic-shaped frame that holds Zenyatta’s main processes and puts order into them.

Slowly, piece by piece, process by process, Zenyatta finds himself grounded through the pleasure, his circuits still overclocked with it but it’s softened as Maximilien’s mind interfaces with his own and steadily repurposes most of Zenyatta’s protocols.

Zenyatta clings to him even as he keeps shuddering under each oversensitive burst of pleasure, and Maximilien hums, softly, as his fingers dig into Zenyatta’s neck, what part of him isn’t interfaced with Zenyatta caressing down his neck, stimulating those sensitive sensors and the vibrating covering of his chassis.

“Too much, too quickly,” Maximilien’s voice is both within Zenyatta and outside, a weird echo that helps his processes distinguish the physical sound from the thought-process that is shared through their connected mainframes. “You are taking this impressively well.”

The words make him shiver, and the other presence, the one who’s pushing inside his valve, stills for a moment. Calloused fingers find his waist, rub the edge of his visible circuits, a familiar, careful gesture, and Zenyatta is able to feel that particular touch and process it as a singular action, his brain finally restored enough to come to, even as his body shivers, lost within the same pleasure as before.

Within, Maximilien’s interface moves closer, mixing with Zenyatta, tugging him back to the surface, where the pleasure is still sharp, and Zenyatta moans, suddenly aware of how cracked his synth is, how hard he must have screamed and cried and chirped then, and finds his optical receptors back online.

Above him, Akande is staring at him, narrow eyes sharp and focused, their bodies tangled together. Behind him, Maximilien disconnects from him, though he keeps his hands on his neck.

“I thought,” Maximilien speaks up, voice carefully contained though there is a hint of amusement as he directs his query to the side, where Reaper is standing, “that we were meant to drag this on… longer.”

Reaper snorts, his voice a hiss. “Once I was within him, I got greedy for everything he had to offer,” he replies –smug, so smug, for he knows that what he can do is his and his alone. “You can’t say he wasn’t a sight to behold.”

Akande grinds their hips together, the sound wet and lewd to Zenyatta’s auricular receptors, and he shudders, even as the oversensitive sensors calm down, the effect of Reaper’s nanomachines dulling down.

There is still pleasure, though –the same edge as before, only merely bypassed by Reaper, and Zenyatta’s synthetic breath catches and vibrates, still balanced, precariously, still feeling unsatisfied, even if he’s sure he came so many many times–

“Are you alright?” Akande murmurs into his auricular receptor, and Zenyatta knows, in that instant, that he could give Akande everything, more than he’s given already, but greedy to take just as much. Still, Akande’s hips grind into him, and Zenyatta feels full again, stretched enough that it appeases the burn inside him.

Yet he needs him to move –everything was too much before, and now it’s not enough again, and he shudders, tugs at the restraints around his wrists, and arches into him.

He hears, though the sound is still a bit off, as Maximilien shuffles with his arms, and then the tug on his ties lessens, and Maximilien’s hand come to curl around his shoulders, his hands smaller than Akande’s but firm, pleasant against his overheating frame.

“Move,” he orders, but he’s talking to Akande, not Zenyatta.

Akande glares at him, and for a tense second, he does not move… but then, he reluctantly pulls away, and Zenyatta moans and tries to keep him inside as he slips out and away, leaving Zenyatta feel empty and cold.

“It’s alright,” Maximilien murmurs behind him, his hands guiding his slack, weak body up. “Just follow my lead.”

Zenyatta’s body is pliant, humming with pleasure, lazy with so many scattered orgasms that he only felt inside him, his body thrumming with unrelenting desire, and he can barely keep himself sitting up, but Maximilien presses himself flush against his back, uncaring if his pristine clothes get soiled, and Zenyatta shudders when his back feels Maximilien’s firm frame holding him up.

He’s arranged so he’s sitting, legs spread, and Akande hums at the sight, understanding what Maximilien wanted. “Even better,” he murmurs.

He is quick to return between Zenyatta’s parted legs where he belongs, and Zenyatta welcomes him back, greedy for everything he can be given.

Akande kisses the curve of his mouth piece, breathing against it, and his hands tug Zenyatta’s tied arms so they wrap around his neck. “Hold onto me,” he orders, a flash of a sharp smirk, and Zenyatta obeys, even if his grip lacks strength.

He craves it, craves to have Akande inside him again, and as he’s sandwiched between him and Maximilien, Zenyatta feels good.

Then, Akande aligns himself with Zenyatta and pushes inside, and Zenyatta wishes he had some more energy to look down, craving the sight of his valve sucking him back in, instead he focuses on Akande’s face, his intense expression, the crease in his brows as he glares at Maximilien behind him.

Zenyatta doesn’t really care –all he cares about, right now, is the way Akande’s cock fits inside him, stretching and filling him, how it throbs, how he wants Akande to move, to fuck him against Maximilien until the bed rocks and breaks down.

It would not be the first time. Or the last.

He’s hazy with pleasure, his body soft and pliant with it, and his sluggish brain makes him feel like he’s almost floating, and he knows that if it wasn’t for Maximilien’s body behind him, for Akande’s body snug against him, he would just let himself float away. They ground him, but they aren’t moving, waiting, and Zenyatta just wants…

Impatient, Zenyatta clenches around his cock, pushing his hips into Akande’s, and the slight motion is enough to make him fizzle, his sensors still offset and receptive.

He chirps, the sound so breathless, so loud, and then he feels, sharp and instant, Akande’s focus move back to him.

When Maximilien’s fingers curl around his frame, one digging into the wires on his back, one wrapping around his cock, he knows he’s doomed and _wants it_.

Maximilien reconnects with him with a soft click, input sensory data growing sharp, and Zenyatta sings as Akande thrusts into him, almost sending both him and Maximilien toppling backwards.

They make it work.

The hand on his cock slides to the tip, then back to the base, the motion wet and slippery with how much slick lubrication Zenyatta is still leaking, and his valve flutters and clench around Akande with every thrust.

The world threatens to blur again, and Zenyatta digs his fingers into Akande’s clothed back, holding on tight as he and Maximilien toy with his body, drag him back to that sharp, razor-thin edge, and keep him there as they fuck him.

Fingers dig into his circuits then retreat, then dip inside again, nimble fingers playing his cables and wires like an instrument, and with every tug and sparkle of electric pleasure, his cock is stroked and tugged and Akande fucks harder into him.

Zenyatta tilts his head to the side, unable to do much except moan and gasp, and–

Reaper is staring at him from underneath his mask, smugness so vibrant around him that Zenyatta feels a ghost of the nanomachines inside him and cries out. Widowmaker and Sombra are looking at him, even as they are pressed against one another, grinding lazily, hands buried in each other’s pants, Sombra’s lips swollen and lipstick smeared a little on her cheek. Moira is…

Moira’s eyes are focused sharply on Zenyatta’s face plate, on the way his forehead array is blinking unsteadly, and the sharp curve of her mouth shows her pleasure, as intense and concentrated as she looks when she works.

She does not look away, locks eyes with Zenyatta’s optical receptors, and Zenyatta feels the fire in her eyes, the knowledge that she knows how much her staring is part of his pleasure.

Zenyatta is jostled every time Akande fucks into him, pleasure coiling inside him, burning, and Maximilien’s hands play with his circuits, dragging out moans and sounds from him that Zenyatta never thought he could utter, and yet he still can’t look away from her, from the way she stares, and he _knows_ …

“P–” he can barely form a coherent thought, let alone speech, but he has to try, he has to– “Please…”

His legs curl around Akande’s body, dragging him closer, desperate, wanting and wanting and _wanting_ , burning and exhausted and yet craving, needing even _more_ , and Moira hums, pretends to think, one hand rubbing at her chin, and then she finally moves closer.

Every step echoes in the room, and Zenyatta’s core flutters in his chest even as she takes her time to get to them. Her hand caresses the curve of Zenyatta’s neck, where his pistons give in to his voice box.

“You have been rather… patient,” she murmurs, her voice thick and raw, and it’s obvious she is not as unaffected as she’d like to look. She licks her lips. “Even with Reaper taking more than he should have…” she ignores the way Reaper grunts, still far too pleased with himself, and continues “you are doing quite well. Do you deserve your reward? Does he?”

Widowmaker moans and breathes out a soft, amused yes, and Sombra’s hand falters where it’s pressed between them, and she nods, curt and smirking. Reaper nods, his yes a hissed agreement.

“I thought so,” she says, and twists her fingers against his neck.

It’s so easy, so small, but Zenyatta feels the resounding click vibrate through his entire body, and then he feels–

“You’re all mine, now,” Akande murmurs, pleased and possessive, and Maximilien, behind him, scoffs.

Akande, though, means exactly what he says.

He pushes them both down into the bed, and even Maximilien makes a soft, shocked sound as he’s pressed into the mattress by the combined weight of Zenyatta and Akande, so ruffled and taken by surprise when he is so easily toppled and trapped.

The new position makes Zenyatta gasp as Akande pushed deeper inside him, and he scrambles for purchase, grabbing on his shoulders so tightly that the fabric rips a little.

Akande shifts minutely, one hand rearranging Zenyatta’s legs so he can reach a bit lower, and Maximilien’s synth glitches with a startled, unexpected moan when he feels that hand cup him above his own pants, wet with Zenyatta’s slick.

“ _All mine_ ,” Akande grins, wide and feral.

Then he starts thrusting into Zenyatta so hard the bed does rattle, and Zenyatta is far too lost to think about anything else except that, and the burning pleasure, abandoned on Maximilien’s chest and with his fingers buried in his circuits.

Maximilien has no chance to say anything –Zenyatta is heavy on him, and every time Akande fucks him, his back rubs against him, until Maximilien’s modesty panel shifts away and he feels Akande’s hand reach out for him, and as he and Zenyatta are still connected, that pleasure vibrates and moves from one to the other, intoxicating.

Neither wants to stop, and Akande sure as hell does not.

Time loses its meaning, but this time there is nothing stopping the pleasure from peaking, and Zenyatta is tired, aching and needy.

Akande fucks him into the mattress, his prosthetic hand coming to wrap around Maximilian’s fingers, tight and controlling, and guiding it to a fast, overwhelming tempo.

Zenyatta screams again, arches up into Akande, opens himself wide and chases his finish, and Maximilien digs his fingers harder into his circuits and eases his way up, their processes finely tuned and burning together and

_and–_

Zenyatta comes, finally, the last of his lubrication gushing out of his cock to stain his front and Akande’s clothes, the teal translucent and slick and wet, the lewd sounds of Akande fucking into him not enough to cover Zenyatta’s screams.

He comes, and keeps coming, and his synth finally glitches and crashes, his processors overclocking and overheating, and when he thinks it’s enough, the pleasure rocks into him in another wave and he comes again, as Akande is unyielding and fucks him through his orgasms, until he gives another, so sensitive and primed that there is nothing else for him to do.

He comes and comes and writhes on Maximilien’s chest, aftershocks taking over his frame until he can’t stop trembling, and he’s burning so much that his fans overclock, energy and battery depleted, and he’s so tired, and so…

With a last, warning flash, Zenyatta offlines, slumps against Maximilen’s chest even as Akande ruts into him and comes inside him, teeth gritted as he stares down at him, his look of pride the last thing Zenyatta sees as he powers down, gives in and falls into a resting cycle, the pleasure finally peaked and too much for him to process.

He is unconscious as Akande pants and slides out of him and finally lets Maximilien shift, though neither moves for a bit, one aching and still primed, the other recovering.

He’s unconscious when Akande bites down on Maximilien’s neck pistons and his hand dig into the omnic’s pants to curl around his cock, bringing him to a messy finish, the two rutting against each other, bodies shaking with the leftover desire and needing more still.

He’s unconscious when Moira leaves with Widowmaker and Sombra, all three still high enough to wish to continue, elsewhere.

He’s unconscious when Reaper leaves, satisfied and buzzing, nanites sluggish with how much energy they absorbed from him, enough that he will be content for days now.

He is unconscious as Akande and Maximilien clean him up, gently arranging his body, and dress him in pristine, new clothes before they carry him off to his quarters, his unresponsive body nested in Akande’s arms while Maximilien walks at their side, one hand curled around Akande’s elbow.

They both remain with him.


End file.
